Pinterest,
We've gotten to know each other very well in the last few months, and I find you to be more amiable than facebook. I haven't been as amazing a friend to you as you are to me, but that's because it's difficult with you being a website and all. Even so, I find that I spend inordinate amounts of time with you. If you were a person, we'd probably get along quite well.
It's just, well, I need to spend more time doing things instead of looking at pretty pictures. It's not that you're without your uses. I'll still visit for artistic purposes and practical household advice, but even though you can steal hours of my day, you can make me smile. I promise to still visit.
Yours truly,
Kara
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
If My Feet Were My Children, They Would Be Taken By Social Services.
You laugh now, but after this week, I'm fairly certain that title is accurate. First was last Saturday, a blow to my right foot (A is for April. B is for Bee.) and then there was Monday, to balance it out.
I was walking from the kitchen to my room. It is something I have done so many times that I can often do it with my eyes closed (I get bored.), but Monday night I slammed my toes into my mother's hope-chest, and I had my eyes open. As with all times when any foot is slammed into furniture, the foot's owner briefly considered amputation. I managed to limp to my room, preserving my dignity the best I could, by leaning heavily on silence and my right foot. I plopped onto my chair and became a little befuddled when I noticed a piece of plastic or tape stuck to my little left toe. I swung my foot onto my lap. That was no plastic. That was a lovely, thick slice of skin from my little left toe. ...Ow. I tried to see if it went down between my toes where the blood was, or if it was from the tip of the toe. I couldn't tell, so I limped to my mother to file a verbal injury claim. She inspected it, but was also at a loss as to which part of the toe the hanging skin was on. I went to the bathroom and sat on the floor with my equipment. Band-Aids? Check. Neosporin? Check. Why I didn't think to take a wet Q-tip and clean off the blood is beyond me. I rubbed the medicated cream on the side and top of the toe and applied Band-Aids to both parts. It throbbed terribly, but I'd survive.
As I had bandaged my wound I had started to feel warm. By the time I had gotten back to the kitchen to take care of the cat's litter box, I was having trouble seeing out of my right peripheral vision and felt unbearably hot. I also felt light headed. My mother said she'd finish my chores and told me to never become a doctor if this was how my body reacted. I managed to drift off, but I continued to frequently wake up and have trouble going back to sleep. About 2:30 a.m. I went to the bathroom and sat in front of the toilet, taking deep breaths. I didn't throw up, and once I was certain that I wouldn't, I went out to the garage and grabbed a Barf Buddy. I'm so glad that I had that foresight. Around half an hour later, I woke up and felt my mouth making more saliva than normal, a warning sign. I grabbed Barf Buddy and threw up then rushed to the bathroom and threw up some more. I waited awhile to see if I was done before I cleaned up and moved to the kitchen, where I sat at the table with a glass of water and faithful Barf Buddy. I texted my mother two words. "Threw up." A moment later she was there, despite the fact that I woke her at three thirty in the morning. She expressed concern and told me not to try going to work the next day. I was perfectly fine with that. My head was throbbing like nobody's business.
The next day I slept on and off, occasionally eating crackers and sipping on ginger ale soda, doing my best to ignore my aching head and throbbing foot. My mother thinks I had a 24 hour bug, but I'm thinking migraine, triggered by extreme toe damage. Alright, maybe not extreme, but painful. Considering the temporary loss of peripheral vision, which is one of my warning signals for a migraine, and the fact that at no point did I have a temperature, my theory is looking pretty good.
I have since learned that the loss of skin was at the end of my toe and that the blood on the side was just the blood that had flowed out of the wound. It is perfectly fine, just like the bottom of my right foot. After this week, one question really needs to be brought up. Should I keep on at least socks, shoes if I'm out of the house, since I seem to be a bit accident prone recently? The answer is probably yes, but I probably won't. I am the fairy child. If the weather is nice and I'm not going in public, there is no way I will be shod.
I was walking from the kitchen to my room. It is something I have done so many times that I can often do it with my eyes closed (I get bored.), but Monday night I slammed my toes into my mother's hope-chest, and I had my eyes open. As with all times when any foot is slammed into furniture, the foot's owner briefly considered amputation. I managed to limp to my room, preserving my dignity the best I could, by leaning heavily on silence and my right foot. I plopped onto my chair and became a little befuddled when I noticed a piece of plastic or tape stuck to my little left toe. I swung my foot onto my lap. That was no plastic. That was a lovely, thick slice of skin from my little left toe. ...Ow. I tried to see if it went down between my toes where the blood was, or if it was from the tip of the toe. I couldn't tell, so I limped to my mother to file a verbal injury claim. She inspected it, but was also at a loss as to which part of the toe the hanging skin was on. I went to the bathroom and sat on the floor with my equipment. Band-Aids? Check. Neosporin? Check. Why I didn't think to take a wet Q-tip and clean off the blood is beyond me. I rubbed the medicated cream on the side and top of the toe and applied Band-Aids to both parts. It throbbed terribly, but I'd survive.
As I had bandaged my wound I had started to feel warm. By the time I had gotten back to the kitchen to take care of the cat's litter box, I was having trouble seeing out of my right peripheral vision and felt unbearably hot. I also felt light headed. My mother said she'd finish my chores and told me to never become a doctor if this was how my body reacted. I managed to drift off, but I continued to frequently wake up and have trouble going back to sleep. About 2:30 a.m. I went to the bathroom and sat in front of the toilet, taking deep breaths. I didn't throw up, and once I was certain that I wouldn't, I went out to the garage and grabbed a Barf Buddy. I'm so glad that I had that foresight. Around half an hour later, I woke up and felt my mouth making more saliva than normal, a warning sign. I grabbed Barf Buddy and threw up then rushed to the bathroom and threw up some more. I waited awhile to see if I was done before I cleaned up and moved to the kitchen, where I sat at the table with a glass of water and faithful Barf Buddy. I texted my mother two words. "Threw up." A moment later she was there, despite the fact that I woke her at three thirty in the morning. She expressed concern and told me not to try going to work the next day. I was perfectly fine with that. My head was throbbing like nobody's business.
The next day I slept on and off, occasionally eating crackers and sipping on ginger ale soda, doing my best to ignore my aching head and throbbing foot. My mother thinks I had a 24 hour bug, but I'm thinking migraine, triggered by extreme toe damage. Alright, maybe not extreme, but painful. Considering the temporary loss of peripheral vision, which is one of my warning signals for a migraine, and the fact that at no point did I have a temperature, my theory is looking pretty good.
I have since learned that the loss of skin was at the end of my toe and that the blood on the side was just the blood that had flowed out of the wound. It is perfectly fine, just like the bottom of my right foot. After this week, one question really needs to be brought up. Should I keep on at least socks, shoes if I'm out of the house, since I seem to be a bit accident prone recently? The answer is probably yes, but I probably won't. I am the fairy child. If the weather is nice and I'm not going in public, there is no way I will be shod.
My Wil-O-Wisp
It's national poetry month and I've finally written a poem. I don't know where it came from. It just... came. This poem is for all children who have left their parents early.
Whisper
and listen,
my little wil-o-wisp.
Can you hear
the tree frogs?
The night birds?
They're singing for you.
They sing
to welcome you
into their realm.
Gaze
at the stars.
See?
They wear their best
for you.
Will you dance?
Will you dance with them?
Go my child.
Dance among the stars
to the night music.
I will follow
in my time.
One day.
One day I will follow.
Till then
dance,
dance among the stars.
Whisper
and listen,
my little wil-o-wisp.
Can you hear
the tree frogs?
The night birds?
They're singing for you.
They sing
to welcome you
into their realm.
Gaze
at the stars.
See?
They wear their best
for you.
Will you dance?
Will you dance with them?
Go my child.
Dance among the stars
to the night music.
I will follow
in my time.
One day.
One day I will follow.
Till then
dance,
dance among the stars.
A is for April. B is for Bee.
A wild Blog Post has appeared! Okay, geeky attempts at a jokes are over for now, probably.
I have been slacking off as of late in regards to my blogging. That much is fairly evident. Maybe it's because I haven't been able to think of a story, or perhaps I've simply been unable to conjure a poem, which is sad, since it is poetry month. Saturday, I sat at my computer and looked outside at the bluejay and the cardinal in our dogwood. I could read more webcomics or go out. What I should do is blog, but I can't think of anything, certainly not anything good. Out it is then. It was thus that I grabbed my camera and slid barefoot into the grass, and thus it was also that you should be provided with this post.
The summer after my fourth grade year, my mother brought my sister and me to Great Grandma's house. She had great, big (okay, great, big to a fourth grader) goose berry bushes. I loved gooseberries. My sister doesn't share that taste. Either way, we both searched thoroughly alongside our cousins. There were thorns, but we were careful. It was when we were playing in the yard that the most exciting part of the day took place. My sister was stung by a bee in her palm. There was great distress, and I got to watch my mother take care of her battle wound. I was at once fascinated, jealous that she got to be the first of the two of us, and embarrassed that she was making such a fuss (even if it did hurt a lot). At all points the phrase "summer after fourth grade" says a lot in way of explanation. Although if we had been older, I probably still would have been fascinated. She stayed in for the rest of the day, but my turn would come many years later. (Although you really should have guessed that by now.)
I have spent a wonderfully large amount of my life out side and a good chunk of that barefoot. If I were native to Tolkien's Middle Earth, I would, quite possibly, have been a hobbit. So it was Saturday that I slipped outside barefoot and trotted over to the flowers I saw, camera in hand. I took several pictures, a handful of which were "photo bombed" by Spirit. She was following me around. After some time I decided to bring something outside. I've always liked pictures that have something from the inside world in the outside world. Enter Rosie, a honey colored teddy bear that I made a "dress" for while watching Frankenstein when I was too young to be very interested. She is the closest thing to a traditional stuffed bear that I have. I posed her around and in a tree and took more pictures (and one of those was also "photo bombed" by Spirit). I picked her up and started to head off for another part of the yard. A few paces from the tree, I was "stabbed" on the bottom of my right foot. I figured it was a thorn. I was, after all, not far from the climbing rose (which doesn't really climb, more of makes a slight curve up then hugs the ground again as if it were afraid of heights). I hobbled a little ways and sat, twisting my foot to see the underside. Nothing really stood out among the grass that was stuck there, nothing except the thing a little closer to the arch than most of the grass. I pulled on it and realized that it had a clear bit attached somehow. Finally, I pulled it out. Low and behold, it was no thorn. It was the back end of a bee, not just a stinger. There was some exoskeleton and the clear stuff was probably some kind of bee gut. My theory is that it was already dismembered when I stepped on it, otherwise there would have been a whole lot more or less bee.
I limped inside and taking a cloth, cleaned it off. After all, there's no point in getting an infection. Then I limped off to find my father and casually ask if bee stings required any special treatment. He was a lot more worried about it than I was. I showed him the little red spot, and he sent me to find a large bandage. Maybe two or three minutes after the initial penetration of skin, it started to hurt a little, if hurt is really the best word for it. It felt different at any rate, odd maybe. When we looked at it agin, it was a red spot in a white circle, which, I was informed, was the poison. We applied the "magic" ingredients, put on the bandage to keep it on my foot, and pulled on a sock to keep the bandage on. After all that, I sat and tried to think of how to describe what it felt like. The best I've been able to come up with is, "a little less than a dull throbbing."
I am perfectly fine at this point. The only evidence is a dark spot under my skin the size of a pinhead, like a splinter.
I have been slacking off as of late in regards to my blogging. That much is fairly evident. Maybe it's because I haven't been able to think of a story, or perhaps I've simply been unable to conjure a poem, which is sad, since it is poetry month. Saturday, I sat at my computer and looked outside at the bluejay and the cardinal in our dogwood. I could read more webcomics or go out. What I should do is blog, but I can't think of anything, certainly not anything good. Out it is then. It was thus that I grabbed my camera and slid barefoot into the grass, and thus it was also that you should be provided with this post.
The summer after my fourth grade year, my mother brought my sister and me to Great Grandma's house. She had great, big (okay, great, big to a fourth grader) goose berry bushes. I loved gooseberries. My sister doesn't share that taste. Either way, we both searched thoroughly alongside our cousins. There were thorns, but we were careful. It was when we were playing in the yard that the most exciting part of the day took place. My sister was stung by a bee in her palm. There was great distress, and I got to watch my mother take care of her battle wound. I was at once fascinated, jealous that she got to be the first of the two of us, and embarrassed that she was making such a fuss (even if it did hurt a lot). At all points the phrase "summer after fourth grade" says a lot in way of explanation. Although if we had been older, I probably still would have been fascinated. She stayed in for the rest of the day, but my turn would come many years later. (Although you really should have guessed that by now.)
I have spent a wonderfully large amount of my life out side and a good chunk of that barefoot. If I were native to Tolkien's Middle Earth, I would, quite possibly, have been a hobbit. So it was Saturday that I slipped outside barefoot and trotted over to the flowers I saw, camera in hand. I took several pictures, a handful of which were "photo bombed" by Spirit. She was following me around. After some time I decided to bring something outside. I've always liked pictures that have something from the inside world in the outside world. Enter Rosie, a honey colored teddy bear that I made a "dress" for while watching Frankenstein when I was too young to be very interested. She is the closest thing to a traditional stuffed bear that I have. I posed her around and in a tree and took more pictures (and one of those was also "photo bombed" by Spirit). I picked her up and started to head off for another part of the yard. A few paces from the tree, I was "stabbed" on the bottom of my right foot. I figured it was a thorn. I was, after all, not far from the climbing rose (which doesn't really climb, more of makes a slight curve up then hugs the ground again as if it were afraid of heights). I hobbled a little ways and sat, twisting my foot to see the underside. Nothing really stood out among the grass that was stuck there, nothing except the thing a little closer to the arch than most of the grass. I pulled on it and realized that it had a clear bit attached somehow. Finally, I pulled it out. Low and behold, it was no thorn. It was the back end of a bee, not just a stinger. There was some exoskeleton and the clear stuff was probably some kind of bee gut. My theory is that it was already dismembered when I stepped on it, otherwise there would have been a whole lot more or less bee.
I limped inside and taking a cloth, cleaned it off. After all, there's no point in getting an infection. Then I limped off to find my father and casually ask if bee stings required any special treatment. He was a lot more worried about it than I was. I showed him the little red spot, and he sent me to find a large bandage. Maybe two or three minutes after the initial penetration of skin, it started to hurt a little, if hurt is really the best word for it. It felt different at any rate, odd maybe. When we looked at it agin, it was a red spot in a white circle, which, I was informed, was the poison. We applied the "magic" ingredients, put on the bandage to keep it on my foot, and pulled on a sock to keep the bandage on. After all that, I sat and tried to think of how to describe what it felt like. The best I've been able to come up with is, "a little less than a dull throbbing."
I am perfectly fine at this point. The only evidence is a dark spot under my skin the size of a pinhead, like a splinter.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Siblings' Day 2013
Tada!
It's a blog post! In for-warning, the writing may not be like most of my posts. I normally make a point of not listening to music while I write. It messes with the rthym and emotion of my words. However, my brother, Ace, is listening to his music audibly, and if I must have slightly off writing, I'd rather have it because of my music. We have different tastes. While he likes much of my music, I don't really like a fair amount of his. It's the same way with my sister. I love all her music, but she doesn't like Owl City or Tenth Avenue North. While we all have our individual tastes, we still claim each other for whatever reason. Well, in my sister's case, we don't have a choice, but I think that if we did I'd still like her. What her choice would be is debateable.
Today is Siblings' Day, so I figured I would write about my sister. I might write about my brothers in following years. Ace would certainly be an interesting entry, but on to my sister. It's hard to think of what story to tell. When she possibly saved my life? When she almost killed me? I don't think a story is right for now.
She was my example growing up. I aspired to be as smart and beautiful as her. I'm sure she hated that, even though she did use it to her advantage since I could get away with more things than she could. She's three years older than me, and I bawled my eyes out once she was out of sight on the road to college. In a sense, she's a part of me. The reasonable part that has a few odd but much loved quirks.
So happy Siblings' Day, big sister. I love you, and your cat misses you a lot.
Readers other than my sister: Go. Go give a hug to your brother or sister. Hold him, her, or both close and apologize for that argument last week. If you don't have a sibling, hug a pet or your parents, your kids, your spouse, or even yourself, if you live totally alone, because time forces us all apart in one way or another, but we'll all meet again at some point.
Take care,
Kara
It's a blog post! In for-warning, the writing may not be like most of my posts. I normally make a point of not listening to music while I write. It messes with the rthym and emotion of my words. However, my brother, Ace, is listening to his music audibly, and if I must have slightly off writing, I'd rather have it because of my music. We have different tastes. While he likes much of my music, I don't really like a fair amount of his. It's the same way with my sister. I love all her music, but she doesn't like Owl City or Tenth Avenue North. While we all have our individual tastes, we still claim each other for whatever reason. Well, in my sister's case, we don't have a choice, but I think that if we did I'd still like her. What her choice would be is debateable.
Today is Siblings' Day, so I figured I would write about my sister. I might write about my brothers in following years. Ace would certainly be an interesting entry, but on to my sister. It's hard to think of what story to tell. When she possibly saved my life? When she almost killed me? I don't think a story is right for now.
She was my example growing up. I aspired to be as smart and beautiful as her. I'm sure she hated that, even though she did use it to her advantage since I could get away with more things than she could. She's three years older than me, and I bawled my eyes out once she was out of sight on the road to college. In a sense, she's a part of me. The reasonable part that has a few odd but much loved quirks.
So happy Siblings' Day, big sister. I love you, and your cat misses you a lot.
Readers other than my sister: Go. Go give a hug to your brother or sister. Hold him, her, or both close and apologize for that argument last week. If you don't have a sibling, hug a pet or your parents, your kids, your spouse, or even yourself, if you live totally alone, because time forces us all apart in one way or another, but we'll all meet again at some point.
Take care,
Kara
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